George Chesbro - Two Songs This Archangel Sings

"Supposedly?"

"I called him two days ago, Mongo."

"You think he's ducking us?"

"Not us; he's ducking this Archangel business."

"It amounts to the same thing. Lippitt wouldn't do that, Garth."

"Wouldn't he? As I recall, the last time we spoke with him was after he'd spent six months with us on Mom's and Dad's farm. Before we went there, we were all marked for death; by the time we left, he'd been appointed Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He was the one who personally gave us that number I called, along with a code word to use in case we ever needed him in an emergency and he wasn't there. According to him, his people would immediately patch him in to us, no matter where he was in the world. If that wasn't possible, he'd get back to us within an hour or two. It's been two days."

"Who answered the phone?"

"How the hell do I know? A woman; probably his secretary."

"You told her who was calling, and mentioned Valhalla?"

"I did. Not a peep from our dear friend, Mr. Lippitt."

It disturbed me, too. The ageless old man had shared two of the most dangerous times in my brother's life and mine, had suffered many of the same emotional scars in the aftermath of the deadly Valhalla Project. It was from our parents' farm that he had directed the cleanup of the operation but, like us, he was there to decompress, to let the memories of the horrors we had witnessed fade away. We owed the old man our lives, and he owed us his, many times over. After all we had been through together, it was incomprehensible to me that he would ignore our call for help. That was what I told Garth.

My brother shook his head. "Remember what concerned Lippitt most about the Valhalla Project? He couldn't accept that the government of the United States could be involved in something like that. Well, he turned out to be about half right on that one. But not this time. Now he's part of the establishment, and his own people are involved in this Archangel shit right up to their eyeballs."

"He was always part of the establishment, and he was never one of your favorite people."

"Christ, Mongo, he's the head of one of the most important agencies of the Pentagon. When it's a choice between helping us and doing all he can to protect his outfit, the outfit comes first. That's how I read his silence. This gives you some idea of just how isolated we are on this thing, and what we have to look forward to. If you want my opinion on something else, I'm beginning to smell something bad about the way I was so quickly transferred over to this case. You remarked on it. It could be that strings were pulled. Somebody knew that I'd be making moves to protect my brother in any case; by officially putting me next to you, they're getting written reports on everything we turn up. It's a good way to keep an eye on you, courtesy of the NYPD."

"It sounds a little paranoid, Garth," I said, chilled by the thought that he could be dead on the mark. "And I still believe Lippitt will have a good explanation."

"Good. When Lippitt calls, you let me know what it is." Garth rose from the table, removed his coat from a rack in the corner of the kitchen, shrugged it over his broad shoulders. "In the meantime, I'm going down to the station house and see if I can get a line on the best way to approach Po." He started to leave, turned in the doorway and pointed his index finger at me. "Remember; no heavy errands on your own. I want you in one piece when I get back."

"Lippitt will call."

"Nine-six-seven-forty." "May I speak with Mr. Lippitt, please?"

"May I ask who's calling?"

"Robert Frederickson."

"Your name is familiar to me, Dr. Frederickson. Mr. Lippitt has spoken of you and your brother often."

"I'd like to talk to him."

"I'm afraid he's unavailable, Dr. Frederickson. He's out of the country for an indeterminate length of time."

"Is he all right?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't divulge any information other than what I've told you."

"Will you patch me through to him? This matter has Valhalla priority."

"I understand. But it's not possible for him to speak with you now. He'll return your call when he has an opportunity."

"Will you be speaking to him soon?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't-"

"When you do get in touch with him, tell him I want to talk to him about a certain Archangel by the name of Veil Kendry. I think he'll know what I'm talking about; if he doesn't, he should take steps to find out."

"I have the message noted, Dr. Frederickson."

When I hung up, I had the unpleasant feeling that Garth could be right. My feet burned, and suddenly I felt thoroughly exhausted. I decided that my other business could wait, and I spent the rest of the day resting and thinking, and waiting for Lippitt to call. The phone remained silent.

The next day I called a local florist and made arrangements to wire flowers and a thank-you note to Loan Ka and his family, the order to be delivered by a Hmong-owned florist shop in Seattle. Next I touched base with my insurance company to see what they were doing about my claims for personal possessions lost in the fire, and then called a rental agent I was using. The woman had three apartments for me to look at, and I told her I'd get back to her to arrange appointments. Then I put on my parka and went out into the day.

The Federal Building was slightly less than forty blocks downtown, and I decided to walk at least part of the distance and try to find out who, if anyone, was playing tail-of-the-day. The people interested in my comings and goings were obviously serious, and I assumed that the big man with the white eyes had at least one backup.

The noon streets and sidewalks around midtown were clogged with cars and pedestrians, which made if difficult for me to tag anyone who might be following along behind me. I decided to try to clear the picture a little. I abruptly turned left and crossed the avenue against the light, hopping and skipping my way through an obstacle course of speeding, honking cars. The next block of the cross street was closed to traffic due to a construction project utilizing two monstrous cranes. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were shielded by narrow, wooden walkways in which people could only walk two or three abreast. I waited for a crowd of people to come across the avenue, then cut in front of those heading for the walkway on the right side of the street. Screened from anyone who might have been following me, I sprinted to the end of the wooden tunnel, turned right at the corner, and stepped behind a newsstand.

The people who'd been behind me in the walkway emerged, parted at the corner. I waited, and more people came out; there was no one who seemed in any great hurry or who stopped to look around. I decided that if I'd had anyone tailing me, I'd lost him, and I stepped out from behind the newsstand.

As I reached into my pocket for change to buy a Times, I scanned the day's headlines; one story leaped out at me, and I sucked in my breath and involuntarily took a little step backward.

The Times had the story halfway down the front page, in the third column. However, both the Daily News and the Post carried the item as their sole lead story, complete with large, grisly photographs. Liu Sakh Po, notorious ARVN colonel and alleged unreformed whore-master and gangster, would not be answering my questions, or anyone else's, since he was quite dead, his brain having been mashed inside his crushed skull sometime during the previous evening. I felt lightheaded and slightly nauseated; it was an eerie feeling to be standing on a windy, snow-blown corner in New York City looking at headlines announcing a man's death in a city a hundred and fifty miles away and knowing you are responsible. There was no doubt in my mind that it was my trip to Seattle that had killed him.